


Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

by christinefromsherwood, soufflegirl91



Category: James Bond (Craig movies)
Genre: Domestic Fluff, Established Relationship, Fluff and Humor, Idiots in Love, James Bond POV, M/M, Picnics, This fic might give you diabetes
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-08-27
Updated: 2020-08-27
Packaged: 2021-03-07 03:00:41
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,377
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26119993
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/christinefromsherwood/pseuds/christinefromsherwood, https://archiveofourown.org/users/soufflegirl91/pseuds/soufflegirl91
Summary: After seeing Q stressed out because of work, James decides to help him relax with a nice romantic picnic. The best and most perfect picnic of Q’s life, in fact.
Relationships: James Bond/Q
Comments: 27
Kudos: 98





	Sweet Dreams (Are Made of This)

**Author's Note:**

  * For [sunaddicted](https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunaddicted/gifts).



> This was written as a Fest prize for our dear villain **sunaddicted** , whose prompt ( _fluff at a picnic_ ) made Souffle and I realise which direction we wanted to take our baby plotbunny (i.e. "there's food" & "Q and James are in love"). 
> 
> Enjoy! :)

As the doors of Q Branch swished open ahead of him, James wondered what he would be presented with this time. He was beginning to love coming home from missions, if only for the surprise of what sweet treat Q would be eating today. He had never managed to guess correctly, so far. 

“Oh good, you’re back. Catch!” 

The doors had barely closed behind him before James was reaching up to catch the water bottle lobbed at his head. Reusable, of course. Q was very eco-conscious. Never mind that if James ever failed to catch it, the hard plastic bottle would be all the more likely to knock him out cold. He was sure Q wouldn’t throw it quite so hard if James was injured. 

“Thank you,” he took a grateful gulp. No matter how many complimentary drinks they handed out in business class, James was always thirsty when he landed. “What _is_ this? It’s not water. And why is it _blue?_ ”

“I was doing some research. After a long flight, sports drinks are a good way to rehydrate. The electrolytes will do you good.” James raised a quizzical eyebrow at Q, who actually _blushed._ “Oh, shut up and drink it. It’s heavily diluted, anyway.”

James obediently lifted the bottle back to his mouth, hiding his grin. That was his Q. For all that Q was the one who was determined to “keep things professional” at work, he could never quite hide that he cared. 

“Come along, 007. We’ll debrief in my office. I hope you brought your kit back in one piece, this time.”

James wondered what it would be today. Baklava, maybe? No. His mission had taken him to Santorini, and Q never picked anything from the same part of the world as his work. Q’s little way of keeping his mind off work, James supposed. 

Someone - R - suppressed a laugh in a cough when Q opened the door to his office and gestured James through. James tried not to grin as he watched Q narrow his eyes at her and very pointedly not close the door behind them. 

“Did something happen?” he asked as he settled on the chair by Q’s desk and watched Q raise his head snootily and pull the door half-way.

“No,” Q answered, making his way over. “But she’s been giving me _looks_ all afternoon. They all have!”

“Hmm.” James took another sip of his drink--he found himself actually enjoying the taste--and pretended not to notice how Q’s shoulders relaxed against the back of his chair, or the pleased grin he aimed at the pristine Walther and tablet James had placed on his desk. 

“It seems as though they expect me to jump you the moment you walk in the door ever since they found out about us!” 

James choked on his drink, blue liquid rushing up his nose. He quickly put the bottle down and grabbed for the tissues Q was handing him.

“Are you saying you weren’t tempted?” he got out in between coughs. 

Q grinned at him, raising an eyebrow. James would have grinned back if he weren’t afraid of blue drool staining his teeth and suit. As a rule they kept any “jumping” strictly to the privacy of their respective flats; be it enthusiastic displays of affection, or the not-at-all romantic kind of jumping a person when one of them made an unplanned visit to the other. (James still had a white strip of untanned skin from when he’d surprised Q when he was cutting vegetables for a salad before the Santorini mission.)

“Want some?” James looked up to find a plate of flaky pastry being nudged in his direction. _Pain au chocolat_ , Q’s favourite. 

“Did you have a proper lunch or have you been eating sweets all day again?” 

Q’s blush ran from the tips on his ears down his neck and disappeared behind the collar of his green sweater. 

“I ate,” he muttered, avoiding James’s eyes. “I don’t exist on sweets alone, you know.” 

“Of course not, darling.” James took the plate, deciding not to push the issue. The burst of butter, chocolate and just the right level of sweetness made James moan as he bit into the pastry. “You always find the best pastries.” 

“Yes, well.” Q looked smug, the bastard. “I know all the best bakeries. I’m amazed you managed to bring everything back for once. No komodo dragons appeared at the airport just as you were about to board the plane?” 

“That was _one time_ , Q!” Flakes of pastry exploded from his mouth. Q’s nose wrinkled as he shoved another tissue into James’s hand. He took it, obligingly wiping his mouth and cursing his inability to swallow before speaking. “Besides, I thought we agreed I made that up to you after our fourth date.” 

James was delighted to see that pale blush reappear. It reminded him just how far down underneath Q’s sweater it went. He’d spent several happy hours finding out all of the places that Q blushed after that fourth date...

He cleared his throat, bringing his attention back to the present.

“Speaking of dates…”

“Smooth,” Q interjected, but he was grinning. No doubt he had been remembering the same thing.

“Are you free tomorrow afternoon?” 

“Yeees,” Q drawled. “What did you have in mind?”

“You’ll see.” James grinned, cheekily. “I’ll pick you up from yours at around noon. Don’t have lunch.” 

With that, he put the plate down on Q’s desk, leaning in to brush a kiss against his pink cheek. He turned on his heel and sauntered out of Q Branch, whistling quietly. 

He had plans to make. 

The idea had occurred to James as he picked at his pitiful airplane salad on the flight back from Greece. 

It was a wilted lettuce leaf that reminded him of what he was missing at home. Q had contacts in all of the truly good food establishments in the neighbourhood around MI6 and somehow managed to have excellent snacks in his office at all times. 

Most of the time it was some kind of a biscuit or pastry, but the last time James had stopped by, Q had shared his Caesar salad with him. James could still taste the sweet crunch of the lettuce, the gentle bite of the dressing… And so, in his seat in business class, James had thoughtfully twirled the sad lettuce leaf on his plastic fork and pondered:

  * _Jon Snow had promised a sunny weekend._
  * _Q had been working long hours lately and he would probably enjoy spending some time outside for a change._



_➡ Q deserved to enjoy his favourite treats while relaxing in the fresh air and away from the harsh glare of his monitors._

The list James had then jotted down on the complimentary napkin, which he was now trying to decipher in the chilled food aisle of Sainsbury’s, was only the beginning of what was about to be the greatest picnic of Q’s life. 

… If only he could decide what to _buy_. 

That was the problem. Q was the one with all of the contacts. James had _no idea_ where Q bought all of his delicious baked goods. There was never any packaging lying around and the one time James had asked, Q had merely said “around” with an enigmatic smile. That was _not_ helpful. He considered seeing if he could call in a favour with The Ritz for a takeaway afternoon tea. 

_No._

Q would never stop laughing at him if he did that. The one and only time James had taken Q to dinner at the Savoy, Q had teased him for being a “posh wanker too good for the plebs” for _weeks._ He was on his own. 

A picnic. What did people eat on picnics? He was going to stock up on all of the delicious sweet things Q seemed to love, but picnics should include _something_ savoury, right? A quiche, maybe? Did Q like quiche? 

The moment James asked himself that question he knew that the answer was a firm, decisive _no_. It took him a moment to recall where that particular reflex came from, but when he did, he was glad that it had. 

Tuesday, April 5th. That was one of the first times he had seen Q truly angry. He’d stormed out of the committee meeting, fuming about incompetent, self-serving pricks: his approved budget wasn’t even half of what he’d requested. He’d calmed down somewhat when he saw James ready with two cups of tea before conjuring a plate with two slices of quiche Lorraine and telling James about a new place with savoury French pastries he’d discovered. 

James still remembered the betrayed look on Q’s face when he bit into the pastry only to find that not only was the bottom burned, but the butter in the crust had gone rancid. 

“If I never see another quiche again, it’ll be too soon,” he’d said in the same dark tone he usually reserved for his counterpart at -5. 

James turned away from the deli counter.

Not quiche, then. What else did people take on picnics? 

James walked slowly through the aisles, eyes scanning terrain for any clues. This part of the shop was unexplored territory; he didn’t normally buy _himself_ sweet treats. 

Before, on the plane, he hadn’t wanted to reveal his plan by conducting a research on picnics from his mission tablet. Moreover, then, still high from the mission success, he hadn’t particularly thought he would _need_ to look up traditional picnic foods. He’d had a million ideas which he’d condensed onto his list and then immediately forgot about. 

For example, he had no idea what he’d meant by sketching the cross section of a small planet with his biro. 

Mozart balls? 

Q had seemed to enjoy them when James brought a small packet from the stint in Vienna, however, James didn’t relish the thought of having to peel coloured tin foil off melted chocolate if Jon Snow’s forecast was to be believed.

He couldn’t have meant Mozart balls, surely!

“AAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAAIIIIIIIIIIIIEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEEE.” 

Using his shopping basket as a shield, James’s hand was at his knife holster before he even registered what he was doing. 

“But you **_PROMISED_ **,” wailed a child from its seat in the shopping trolley, beating pudgy fists against the handlebar. “You promised I could have Scotch eggs for luuuuunch!”

The word lunch reached truly unpleasant frequencies and James winced in sympathy with the mother who was pushing her shopping and shrieking offspring past him with a serene, dead-inside expression on her face. 

As the screaming faded and James’s heart rate returned to normal levels, he considered the wisdom of toddlers. So _that_ was what that planet drawing had been. Q would like Scotch eggs, surely? He was British and not a vegetarian, therefore he _must_ like Scotch eggs. It was basically the rules. 

Tossing a pack of four into his basket, James consulted the first few items on his list.

    1. _Biscuits. All the biscuits. Chocolate?_
    2. _Pastries (Croissant? Danish? ~~Cinnamon roll?~~ )_
    3. He headed in the direction of the bakery section. Q had an endless supply of biscuits and pastries, yes, but what would be best suited to a picnic? 

James careened to a halt as something caught his eye. He waved an apology to a little old biddy who had almost bumped into him, ignoring her muttered “people these days, never paying attention to what’s around them.”

There, in the desserts section, hiding between apple pie and trifle:

    4. _LEMON TARTS!_

That particular mission had ended on a Friday. James, dog tired and wanting nothing more than to steal Q back to his flat and spend the whole night cuddled against him, had returned to Q Branch to find Q giddy with excitement. It had been early on in their… whatever this was. Could he call it a relationship? They had still been learning each other’s moods and quirks. Practically vibrating, Q had pounced on him as soon as he walked through the doors and physically _dragged_ James to his office.

“Here. You’ll like this,” Q had said, shoving something yellow and pastry-like into his hand. Intrigued by the intense look in Q’s eyes, James had taken a bite. 

It was _delicious._ Sweet and sharp and creamy, with the pleasant crumble of pastry. Heavenly, even. What was even _better_ was the heated look in Q’s eye. That blush--still so new to James at that point--rushing to his cheeks, pupils dilating as he watched James lick his lips. 

James had very little trouble convincing Q to come back to his flat after that, only it had been a rather more energetic night than he had originally planned. 

He was _definitely_ buying lemon tarts. 

James thoughtfully considered the shelf: there were only five left. Should he-

Just then a familiar unholy screech of “LEMON TARTS!” sounded from the next aisle over. James carefully collected all five and hurried from the scene. Lemon tarts were Q’s favourite treat and there was absolutely no reason why he should share them with this loud brat. It was a pity there weren’t more, though. 

James determined then and there to make up for it by doubling the anticipated amount of croissants and biscuits. Naturally, Sainsbury’s croissants could never measure up to those from a proper French boulangerie, but any croissant was better than no croissant at all in James’s opinion.

The next day found James rushing off to _Lady Dinah’s Cat Emporium_ to pick up his late night order of cupcakes, croissants and macarons. 

Even though he’d left Sainsbury’s laden with bags with jaffa cakes, custard creams, croissants, Scotch eggs and most importantly, lemon tarts, the picnic basket had seemed embarrassingly empty after he arranged all the items inside. (Even after he’d added the two thermos flasks, just to see if they would fit.) 

Now, James wouldn’t call what he had done next a googling spree, but he _had_ looked up a few local bakeries and found himself bitterly regretting buying his pastries from a chain store, instead of freshly baked. 

Thus, the _new_ small mountain of croissants, which now added a pleasant, respectable heft to their picnic basket. James was sure that Q would agree there could never be too many croissants. 

With his hoard of pastries safely ensconced in the boot of his Aston, James set off in the direction of Q’s flat. He couldn’t wait to see Q’s face when he discovered all of his treats. If he played his cards right, he might even be able to keep Q’s good mood going until the evening, and _then_ , well… James had made plans. 

“I’ll be down in a minute,” Q greeted when James rang the doorbell, tinny through the intercom. “Do I need anything?”

“Just yourself. And maybe some sun cream.” After all, Q burned like a lobster if he wasn’t careful. 

James had discovered _that_ fact after Q had been sent out to provide field support for him on a mission in Tunisia. Q had been peeling and grumpy about it for _days_ after they got back, though James had secretly delighted in all of the opportunities to be a _caring_ boyfriend and smother him in moisturiser. 

A few minutes later, Q stepped outside. James took a moment to appreciate the sight of him in comfy, worn jeans and a t-shirt that read "it's ok, Pluto. I'm not a planet, either." 

Greenwich Park for their picnic, then, instead Hyde or Regent's. Maybe they could extend their outing with a trip to the Royal Observatory if Q was amenable. 

James reached out to take Q's jacket (this was still London, after all. Just because no rain was forecast didn't mean there wouldn't be any) and pulled him in for a hello kiss. 

"Hello," James murmured, pulling away.

"Hi," Q grinned, running his thumb over James’s freshly shaved cheek with a heated look in his eyes. "So, what's the big surprise?"

"You'll see." 

James opened the passenger door for Q, taking a moment to drop Q's jacket in the boot with his own and the picnic basket. As he did up his own seatbelt, he caught Q's eye. Q was smiling, though James couldn't tell if it was anticipatory or indulgent.

"Shall we?" 

"Onward, James!"

Finding a parking place near a park on a sunny weekend was certainly... _no picnic_. Still, they managed reasonably well. So well in fact (the owners of a blue Ford Fiesta obligingly climbed into their vehicle and drove off in the exact same moment James had looked despairingly in their direction) that James found himself briefly wondering if there wasn’t something supernatural at play: whenever he drove his Aston, whether it was on mission or just to go shopping, he always managed to park within spitting distance of the main door of wherever he needed to go.

However, the blinding smile Q gave him after he turned off the engine made him want to keep all the credit for his excellent parking skills to himself.

Grabbing the basket and a large blanket from the boot, they set out.

It wasn’t easy, picking the perfect picnic spot, but James was prepared. He had made a list of requirements the night before as he’d considered the layouts of London’s parks on Google maps. 



  * _a good tree:  
shade for Q!!!   
possibility of sunshine   
good cover!_



_problem: WIND - leaves, twigs, insects falling + ROOTS_

  * **_ABSOLUTELY NO CHILDREN!_**
  * not too many people!



_problem: high probability of encountering doggers, if too remote!_

  * A nice view - ideal, but not strictly required  
Pond? 



_Problem: birds - maybe_

  * ???????



Perhaps, he had been overthinking the entire thing much too much. After all, this was a date, not a mission. He just… It needed to be _good_. 

Q was- Q did-

Q deserved the _best_. Always. 

It wasn’t like James could do anything about the new, stricter regulations that came with the ever tighter budget. And though he could and did try to help with the insomnia, there were only so many orgasms men their age could have…

But this was something James _could_ do and so it needed to be perfect. 

The calluses on Q’s fingers felt familiar and comforting against James’s palm as he led him down the path. On impulse, James squeezed his hand and tried not to grin too wide at Q bumping their shoulders together.

“Have you been here before?” Q asked suddenly, breaking what James hadn’t even realised was a very long silence. 

“Once or twice,” he replied, shrugging his shoulders. “That was a while ago, though. Why?”

“No reason.”

Q shuffled closer and when James looked at him out of the corner of his eye, he saw him bite back a smile, the lines around his eyes gone all soft and gentle. 

James adjusted his grip on the basket, beginning to head off the path and onto the wide expanse of grass. Google Street View didn’t really provide all the information James would have liked, but it gave enough of a picture and that one tree had looked very promising.

“Nearly there,” he hummed in answer to Q’s questioning look and- 

Oh. Well, he _had_ rather shown his hand there. 

James didn’t blush, because that simply wasn’t something he did, but his ears did feel a bit warm. Q winding his arm around his waist and hiding a smile (the kind that made his eyes sparkle behind his glasses and his nose crinkle) against his shoulder made it worth it.

And there it was! The tree. The tree that James had definitely _not_ spent fifteen minutes looking at on Street View to make sure it ticked all of his boxes. The tree that thankfully hadn’t already been claimed by any other visitors. This was going to be a nice, romantic picnic, and James was relieved that he didn’t have to break out his 007 intimidation tactics on some nice family that had delusions of claiming _his_ tree as their own. 

“This spot looks nice, don’t you think?” James thought he did a great job of sounding casual and not at all invested in Q’s opinion of his picnic spot. 

“Oh, yes, it’s wonderful.” Q smirked cheekily, making Bond want to kiss that delightful dimple on his left cheek. “One would almost say you planned it.” 

“I might have.” James decided he wasn’t going to waste the opportunity, and he _did_ lean in and kiss the dimple. Q was _laughing_ at him, it was only fair. 

It was the work of a moment to shake out the picnic blanket and set down the basket. James sat on the ground, leaning his back against the tree and beckoning for Q to join him. As Q snuggled up against his chest, James surveyed the park - the National Maritime Museum and the high-rises of Canary Wharf off to their right, and the Royal Observatory perched atop the hill to their left - and felt rather proud of himself. It truly was the perfect picnic spot. 

They sat awhile, Q catching James up on the mischief Panic and Pain had been up to while he was away and James, unable to talk about the mission in public, told Q about all the delicious food he’d eaten while he was away. 

“So, what’s in the basket? I’m starving.”

“Why don’t you open it and find out?” 

Q gave him a mockingly suspicious glance, but reached over to pull the basket closer. 

James grinned to himself over Q’s head. He almost wished he had his phone handy to document Q’s reaction, it would be priceless. This was going to be-

“Oh.”

James froze. Over the last half a year he’d had many opportunities to become acquainted with a wide variety of Q’s _ohs_. This was not one of the happy ones. 

“What’s wrong?” 

“Nothing!” Q replied too quickly for comfort. The grin on his face sat wrong, like someone had forcibly pulled the corners of his mouth up to his cheeks. And he wouldn’t look James in the eye. Instead, he kept staring at the contents of the picnic basket.

 _Ants!_ James realised with horror. Somehow, and he had no idea how, ants must have got into the boot of his Aston and into the basket!

He should have checked the car before setting out. He should have vacuumed the boot! James could have kicked himself. He’d thought of doggers and roots and falling twigs and wailing toddlers but he’d completely forgotten to account for bloody ants!

Still, maybe they could brush them off?

“Oh Q, I’m sorry,” James groaned before reaching for the basket. “Let me have a-”

The small mountain of croissants sat below the flap of the picnic basket exactly how he had arranged it, twin thermos flasks nestled among them, and not a flake out of place. There were no ants. 

“There’s no ants here,” he announced. Q looked up and furrowed his brow. 

“What?”

“There’s no ants,” James repeated. “I thought something was wrong. I thought ants had got into the pastries, but there’s no ants.” 

Q winced, and James realised his mistake.

“Oh, it’s not _just_ croissants, Q.” He huffed out a laugh. “I know you like them and I admit I did go a bit overboard, but even though there’s no such thing as too many croissants, I brought different things as well. Your favourites.” 

He handed the basket back to Q with an encouraging nod of his head. He couldn’t wait until Q discovered the macarons and lemon tarts! 

Q gingerly took out the two thermoses and then began to excavate, making a ravine with steep croissant walls in the basket. 

“Ah, cupcakes!” Q carefully extracted the plastic see-through box and laid it aside on the blanket.

“Chocolate fudge with chocolate cream,” James couldn’t stop himself from adding. 

“Jaffa cakes and macarons. Of course.” The packets found their place besides the cupcakes. 

“There’s raspberry and orange for both. I couldn’t decide which one you’d like better,” James said.

“Ah, Scotch eggs, the savoury staple!”

James nodded, admitting: “I wasn’t sure if you’d like them but I wanted a bit of variety.” 

Q laughed, and there was something strange about that laugh but before James could start to pinpoint what, he’d moved on to looking for the last item, the _pièce de résistance_. 

“You got _lemon tarts_?!” Q yelped, his voice held a shrill, desperate note. James felt his heart sink when Q coughed quickly and corrected himself with the same painted-on smile: “I mean, you got lemon tarts!!!” 

“You hate it,” James realised, correctly for once. “But-” He threw his hands up. “But you _love_ all of these things! You’re _always_ eating them! In your office, or for dessert after dinner, or when you bring a late breakfast with you to-!”

James cut himself off abruptly when he noticed how Q was sitting. With his head in his hands, shoulders shaking. Did Q hate it _that_ much? 

“Q…” James trailed off, not sure how he could make this better. All he had wanted to do was give Q a romantic picnic full of treats he loved - treats James _had thought_ he loved - but now everything had gone wrong and Q was _crying_ and James didn’t know how to _fix it!_

“I bought them for you.” 

“Pardon?” The words were muffled beneath Q’s hands and James wasn’t sure he had heard correctly. Best to check, before he made the situation even worse.

“I bought them for _you_ , you idiot!” Q pulled his hands away from his face, wiping tears from his cheeks and-

Oh. 

Q was _laughing_.

That was… good? Right? _Why_ was Q laughing?! 

“Why,” James said. It didn’t even come out as a question. James didn’t even know if he was referring to the picnic, or the laughter, or Q’s food-buying habits. 

“Because while I don't particularly like the taste of baked chocolate, can't stand the texture of lemon tarts and absolutely loathe how croissant flakes stick to the roof of my mouth,” Q drawled, wiping his face once more and giving James a fond smile. “ _You_ have a sweet tooth.”

Well. That made the kind of sense that… didn’t. Before James could question him, however, Q was off again, gesticulating wildly.

“You hardly ever let yourself indulge it without a reason, and unless it’s part of a cover, I know you just eat whatever is quick and high in protein.” 

James dodged a high-flying hand, catching hold of Q’s wrist before he could give either of them a black eye. 

“I wanted to find a way of getting you to indulge yourself when you get home, and since you love sweet things and I lo-”

Q cut himself off abruptly, but James didn’t need him to finish. For the first time since Q had opened the picnic basket, James knew exactly what Q was thinking.

“You love me?!” 

Q blushed again, flushing lobster red to the tips of his ears, and he wouldn’t meet James’s eyes.

“Well, you bought up London’s entire supply of croissants for me!” he accused. James took a deep breath, ready to defend himself, but then he realised:

“Well, you did it first!” He jabbed the air with his index finger for punctuation.

Q glared at him. And then suddenly, he was rising to his knees and pushing away the cupcakes and macarons, all the while grumbling something like “of all the infuriating pricks!” and then he was kissing James and climbing into his lap and he tasted like Airwaves chewing gum and James buried his fingers in his hair and let them fall backwards, and- 

“You love me,” he repeated more firmly, blinking up at him when Q pulled away.

Finally, _finally_ , Q met his eyes. He looked nervous, and embarrassed, and how could he _possibly_ think that he had anything to be nervous or embarrassed about? James brushed the hair out of Q’s eyes.

“I know it’s probably too soon,” Q babbled, before James could say anything further. “And you don’t have to say it back or anything. It’s silly, really…” 

Q glanced away again, which was just _not acceptable_. James reached out, gently nudging Q’s chin until Q looked back at him.

“I love you too, Q.”

“...You do?” 

Q looked completely flummoxed, and James scrambled for a way to make Q see how serious he was.

“I do. I love you more than lemon tarts.” 

In his life, James hadn’t confessed love to many people. Still, he was fairly certain the regular response wasn’t to, while beginning to laugh, splutter all over the other person’s face. 

“I’m sorry, I’m sorry,” Q giggled his apologies into James’s neck. James wiped his face and hugged him close.

His mind boggled at the realization of just how much Q had been doing to take care of him. Before, it had made sense that Q would go out of his way to find the best artisan bakeries to get himself a treat, but to know that he’d been doing it all for James...

Heart full to bursting in his chest, he gripped him tighter and grumbled: “I see how it is. I bare my soul to you and you spit in my face! You know I can just take my confession elsewhere…”

In a flash, Q raised his head, scanning James’s face before relaxing into his embrace once again. 

“No, no, it was very… _moving_ ,” he reassured him, propping his elbow up next to James’s head. He squirmed against him when James ran his fingers up and down his ribs. “No- Stooooop! I’m very gratified to know I rate higher than lemon curd and shortcrust pastry in your affections.”

James tickled him again.

“Not just lemon curd and shortcrust, Q!” he informed him indignantly. “I love you more than a buttery croissant fresh from the oven of the best Parisian boulangerie!” 

“Oh, Mr. Darcy!” Q rolled off and pretended to faint. James pulled him close again. He wasn’t about to let him go any time soon.

“I love you more than Schwarzwald cake!” he murmured nonsensically into his hair. 

Q raised his head and narrowed his eyes. “I didn’t know you liked cherries in your desserts!”

He looked like he was making a mental note and already going through his list of vendors to see who would be most likely to deliver the best cake with cream, chocolate and cherries.

James wanted to kiss that look off his face. So he did. Hard, before easing the kiss into a gentle caress and whispering, high on happiness, against Q’s lips: 

“You’re my favourite thing in this entire world, you loon. No competition.”

Q trembled beneath him.

“Not even the cupcakes?” he choked out. James rolled his eyes. “They’re chocolate fudge with chocolate cream!”

He tugged at Q’s ear in admonishment. “It’s not the cupcakes I’m hungry for right now.” 

Q yanked him down for another kiss, deep and hot with insistent hands grasping, seeking, and James should have taken off his jacket: it was clearly in the way and- 

Q’s stomach grumbled.

He grinned, sheepishly.

“Well… you _did_ tell me not to eat before you picked me up.”

James huffed out a laugh, bumping their foreheads together. 

“I did. And here was I, thinking I’d get to feed you.” 

That set Q off laughing again. James rolled his eyes fondly, knowing he would never, _ever_ live this day down. That wasn’t so bad, though. It was worth it. 

Q’s stomach grumbled again, more insistently this time.

“I suppose I could give the Scotch eggs a try?” he suggested haltingly without much enthusiasm, before grinning suddenly. “And you can gorge yourself on all the lemon tarts.” 

James glared at him teasingly. 

“Come on,” said James, pushing himself up, “let’s go and get you a proper, _not sweet_ lunch. The park will still be here this afternoon.” 

He gave Q a hand up, steadying him and stealing a kiss just because he could. In a matter of moments, Q had bundled up the blanket and James had securely closed the picnic basket. Picking up the basket and taking Q’s hand, they headed back in the direction of the car. 

Q suddenly halted.

“But James,” he said, eyes wide with a sudden horrible realisation, “what are we going to do with all the croissants?”

**Author's Note:**

> So, how was it? :D Saccharine? Not sweet enough? How hard are you facepalming right now?  
> Also: we accept suggestions for what you think Q and James should do with their mountain of croissants. :D 
> 
> Leave us a comment expressing your thoughts and feelings. (Emojis are also acceptable comment currency 😉)
> 
> ~~(In case you're not familiar with British TV presenters: Jon Snow is an actual RL person, not a weirdly out-of-place GOT reference)~~


End file.
